At the market, the lychee stack so naturally

When you hand me the grocery bag
              I grab where you grab            still warm
And i                                take the residual heat home
             With the receipt.
I occasionally enjoy     overloading the
              washing machine       and contemplating its struggle
                           While bleach and detergent douse my wounds
                                       And its esophagus.
In the morning, we unwrap each other
                          And I pressure-test my lips
On         your hip                                      that has nascent prickles
                          At the market, the lychee stack so naturally.
My pillow looks strange
            After you sleep on it       i cannot reshape it
                         Your negative remarks of permanence
                                                                At the vigil, they wash everything
                                                                                           but we remain              stained
stacked so naturally.


About the Author

Frank Carellini tends to poetry as a mechanism to grasp the fleeting enormity of life, nature, consciousness — reaching with numbing fingers to grab handfuls of an abyss.

raised in brooklyn, ny.

frank has recently published poetry in communion and tiger moth, night picnic, last leaves, NART Mag.

educated in business and biochemistry, he builds life science startups that make the world a bit better.